


5AM

by TheOutCastAyh



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Comforting Steve Rogers, Dark, Dark Character, Dark Past, Eventual Happy Ending, First Meetings, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Meet-Cute, One Big Happy Family, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Sad with a Happy Ending, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Feels, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 15:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15318918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOutCastAyh/pseuds/TheOutCastAyh
Summary: -WARNING: Graphic language; mentions of suicide; suicide attempt; read at your own caution-" Bucky didn’t know how he got there.There was a blank between then and now.All he could remember was waking up from his own nightmares again that morning, oh, how they haunted him. His inner demons, the voices that told him horrible things. Life hadn’t been going too well recently, so his anxiety was rushing to the surface again. He felt like he was in high school all over again, and he was drowning in paperwork and the constant fear of his inevitable death after his school life ended.He looked at it this way: the moment a student leaves the doors of high school for good, they work their lives away, get together with someone, and die. "





	5AM

**Author's Note:**

> Aye, Ayh here! This is one of my darker one shots, and I don't know how it manifested but I've been meaning to put this into writing. I was recently listening to Amber Run's "5AM" and was struck with the nostalgia and inevitable realization that I was a living, breathing, impossible fragment created from another person's life, and it got me thinking. I squeezed this out in under six hours, and sat back after thinking whether or not I should post it. But here it is.
> 
> Like all of my stories, I put pieces of my life into it, and I become attached to the works. This one hits home, and I believe I created Bucky out of my own life. I have lived, I have seen, and I have experienced new emotions. I know and believe I am more than just a sentence in a book or a leaf on a tree, I am essential to life. But in those dark times, we all hear voices that tell us things we don't want to hear. 
> 
> I hope you understand what I mean. Proceed to your own likings. Take care of yourself; drink water, take your pills, eat your meals, and watch a good movie. You deserve the best. :) -Ayh

Bucky didn’t know how he got there. 

There was a blank between then and now. 

All he could remember was waking up from his own nightmares again that morning, oh, how they haunted him. His inner demons, the voices that told him horrible things. Life hadn’t been going too well recently, so his anxiety was rushing to the surface again. He felt like he was in high school all over again, and he was drowning in paperwork and the constant fear of his inevitable death after his school life ended. 

He looked at it this way: the moment a student leaves the doors of high school for good, they work their lives away, get together with someone, and die. 

A very far memory of when he was a kid would haunt him, bring regret and embarrassment to the forefront of his mind. He’d been sitting in the front seat of his dad’s truck, and thoughts hammered his brain. He couldn’t have been older than eight, and he said in gravest, tiniest voice to his dad: _ “I don’t want to die” _ . 

His father was appalled but he too didn’t know what to say; where had this little boy,  _ his  _ little boy, heard this? What brought this along? Would he tell his mother about what he said? All that he said to comfort his son was  _ “Don’t think about that” _ . That was it. 

There were a few childhood traumas that narrated his life, maybe  _ that’s  _ how he got there. Like the time his father was taken away by the police and tried in court because one of the neighbors didn’t like him very well and said he’d touched their daughter. He was set free after she confessed the accusation to be false, but it continued downhill even after. There was the cheating, the fighting, the evictions, endless nights where his father would drink, and family divisions. 

He never saw his father again after the second time he was tried for harassment.

Bucky had just assumed he’d done it this time. 

Growing up in the shadow of a man that was gone was strange. His mother worked paycheck to paycheck to keep the roof over their heads, even then the apartments weren’t the best. Even after they’d settled down into the first floor apartment for what seemed like a decade, tragedy struck and the house caught fire. They stood the night at a friend’s house, and got an apartment within the month. This one wasn’t better; ice cold in the winter, boiling hot in the summers, and the window leaked when it rained. 

It was the best his mother could afford while he was in high school. 

While he was in high school, he suffered greatly. His math grades were solid at rock bottom, Sciences were okay, and electives were beyond better. He developed anxiety, chronic depression, and at times he didn’t want to go to school because if he did - he’d just be there for himself. He didn’t have enough friends, and even then - they would leave him for others. People picked fun of him, his clothes, anything they could snag their teeth on and rip with their monstrous and malicious intent.

People could be so cruel sometimes.

Once high school ended, his mental state had improved slightly.

He got a job so his mother at the age of 45 didn’t have to work so much. Her feet hurt her most nights, she suffered from Diabetes, and could barely afford the Insulin and pills she needed. 

Things got somewhat better from there. 

Bucky landed a job at a front desk, answering calls, scheduling appointments, and receiving customer satisfaction or disagreement. He realized that the job was cut throat and there were cuts being made, so he applied for another job. This time as a food servicing business. He summed up enough money after seven months of saving up what he could (aside from paying half the rent for the apartment), and he passed his driver’s test and received his license at nineteen years old. He got his car soon after. 

Life was soaring. It felt great.

Though he didn’t like waking up at nine in the morning and sitting in a chair all day, answering phone calls, being rejected sometimes, cussed at, listening to people’s life stories were much better. He liked when customer’s unintentional told him about their days and how they’ve been feeling, how they’re kids are, or how they’re family game night went. He was so pleased to feel that someone was open enough to tell him anything, that even if they didn’t want to they did it anyways. 

Helping people made him feel complete.

Day and night he’d work, over time sometimes, he’d work holidays. He was fine with it at first until he realized he wouldn’t be able to spend the fourth of July with his mother. Or Thanksgiving, or even Christmas. His mother loved Christmas! She wasn’t even born in America and she learned to love it because it was a time that people put aside their anger and dispute and they sat around each other to love one another. Giving gifts to one another and thinking of them, she loved Christmas!

Juggling two jobs was hectic, schedules would overlap and he would worry that he’d have to call out on one day and feel terrible. Not showing up to one job when they expected him to be there put stress on him, like he were letting them down. He didn’t like letting people down.

After a while of the constant cycle of nine to fives, and closing shifts - he felt like something was out of balance. It drove him to impulsively quit his job because he was so unhappy, and it worried him more that he’d let them down but even if they were forgiving and assured him that whenever he wanted to come back he could - he felt like he could never go back there and make amends. Even nearing 50, his mother still pampered him and brought him everything she could to make him happy. 

She explained to him that what he did was right, to assure his own happiness, he did the right thing. She continued to say this to him, and he didn’t believe it. Guilt lingered over him every day he thought about it. After having his car a while, it was side swiped while someone was parking. 

The insurance agency gave him 500 dollars for his damages. 

He used the money instead to pay bills and help his mother buy her medicine. 

Life was so well for so long, and then it went to shit.

Bucky didn’t know how he got there.

But there he was - standing on the sidewalk of the Brooklyn bridge, staring out into the void of the water below. The horizon morphed with the water, splashing, and crashing on the rocks below the bridge. It was just near low tide, the crescent of a moon sticking out from behind grey clouds. The stars were out. 

Pure beauty in a world full of madness. 

There was a stray car here and there passing below on the bridge, moving slowly, headlights beaming along the road. Other than that, it was only Bucky and the stray lights that twinkled on the bridge. 

He’d been thinking dark things all night, and he couldn’t lie in his bed around his mother thinking those things. Then his thoughts would travel to her, and they’d only get worse from there. He walked from Brooklyn there, left his car, left his keys on top of the table, and just walked out aimlessly. His legs brought him there and he didn’t know if it was a gift or a burden; maybe it was a sign, God was looking down on him, this poor soul, and giving him the inch of rope he needed to go forward. 

He’d promised himself he’d only look from the bench, but he couldn’t help himself. The  _ L’appel de vide _ was hauntingly singing to him to get closer, to look over, to see the nullity of the water down below.

His eyes had been burning, maybe because he hadn’t blinked in a bit, having a contest with the water, seeing who would win first. In the end, he’d always win. Carefully, he stuck one foot up on the bottom of the railing, and steadied his hands on top. He took a big breath, and closed his eyes. The wind gentle brushed by, cradling him softly, and kissing his cheeks with salty kisses. Such a bold contrast against his imploding mind. 

He hitched one foot over the railing, and then the other carefully. 

Holding onto the railing facing the bridge, slowly he shuffled his feet to turn to the water. One hand clenching the railing under, and the other casually resting on top. His heart was pulsing as if he’d been running a marathon, his breath shaking as he looked down. 

How far down would it be?

Would he die on impact?

Would he survive and be a vegetable for the rest of his life?

What would be worse; living or being kept alive by machines unable to tell them if he was in pain, or uncomfortable, or if he just wanted to call it quits?

He looked up to the sky, and could feel his eyes prick with irritation again. He shook his head, lips quivering, and looked down. He inched one feet to the edge, and stepped back again. He couldn’t do it. James Buchanan Barnes was too terrified to take his own life but too much of a bitch to continue living the same loop every day. 

He sobbed.

How would his mother think of this if she saw him? How much of a wimp he was? How sad he looked. She’d hate him, scold him, and it’d only dig a bigger grave for him. He felt like he was already dead inside, and he couldn’t deal with the weight anymore. The constant fear of death, the constant anxiety attacks, the work his mother would have to put in to put up with him. She didn’t say it but he felt like she was always having to worry about him. Like this - she wouldn’t have to worry another day about him. 

He would just be gone. 

He took a deep breath again, and looked down to the water. He could hear it past the selectively passing cars, and his ankles started to tremble as it amped with anxiety. He wouldn’t let this happen now, he needed to jump, he couldn’t have a panic attack now. Not now. 

He took a deep breath. 

One foot inched forward, one limp hand grazing the frayed edges of the railing. 

“Hey!” Called a voice from the bridge.

Bucky turned his head looking to it, hand clenched back on the railing, foot still closer to the ledge. He forced himself to look away, looking made him feel full of regret and guilty.

“Hey! Are you alright?” They called, nearing cautiously.

He mustered up a mousy response, staring down at the water. “I’m fine.” 

“Is there anything I can do for you right now?” He called.

Bucky closed his eyes, the trembling traveling up his knee. As if his nervousness was dialed up to twelve, it was visible. “I’m fine.” He repeated, voice cracking. He gulped.

The bystander didn’t leave, didn’t make any sudden movements. 

Bucky watched from the corner of his eye as the man slowly leaned against the railing, and looked over to the water below. He too couldn’t see anything but black, but he could hear the distant sounds of the water crashing onto the rocks. He stood feet apart from Bucky. 

If Bucky jumped - he wouldn’t be able to do a single thing about it but watch. 

It would kill him slowly inside. 

He needed to leave. 

“You know, I’ve been having a rough night.” Said the man, he leaned his forearms on the railing. Seemingly relaxed, given the situation. There was a dark tone in his voice, strain, and some sort of sadness. Bucky couldn’t label the sadness just yet; he didn’t know if it was usual sadness, or heartbreaking sadness. 

He continued to stare down at the water.

“I was supposed to meet with a couple friends at this bar that we always go to, but I couldn’t make it because I was at work.” He said, “I’ve been working non-stop, forty hours a week, overtime.” He mumbled, “I’ve missed out on a lot with my friends and family, and I put that weight on my back every time I miss out.” He glanced to Bucky. “I blame myself for every bad thing that I do because I’m designed that way, I’m  _ human.”  _

Slowly Bucky turned his gaze to the man, without fully looking at him, he could see the young features on him. He had to be younger than 25, freshly out of college, steady job, partner, and lots of friends. What was he doing out late in the morning? 

Putting blame on himself for not being with his friends.

“You see, I get into these ruts where I just criticize myself. I make myself into the enemy, and I hate myself. For days it seems, it’s dark.” He looked out to the water, “But I forgive myself. Do you know why?”

Bucky was almost intent on shaking his head no, but instead he kept quiet, eyes still hot with tears.

“Because I have to. Even when I do the stupidest things, and I break things, and I get mad - I forgive myself because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here today.”

Bucky stared out to the water.

“There’s actually a lot of reasons why I’m here today; my family moved back from Boston here, so they’re camping at my house. Can you imagine that? Mom, dad, sister, all shoved into one small apartment in Brooklyn. It’s chaotic at times.” He scoffed with a small smile. “My job, it keeps me anchored. I go to work six days a week, and it gets hard sometimes, but I enjoy it.” He paused, “And - I’m not big on religion, but sometimes, I  _ do  _ think someone’s listening to us. Whatever we beg for, whatever we’re so desperate to gain, we get it eventually.”

Bucky looked up at the stars and sighed, willing the tears to go away, willing this man to go away. 

“It’s rude of me to not ask.” He said, “What’s your name?”

Bucky made a sound like a gasp and a gargle, like he were coming up for air. 

The man only inched forward slowly then stopped, he leaned his head into Bucky’s peripheral view. “Are you okay?” He asked, “You can tell me the truth, there’s no one to judge you.” He assured, “I would never.”

Bucky stared up at the stars, blinking as the tears fell from his eyes.

This stranger watched, and inched a step closer. “How’re you feeling?” He asked, it sounded like a dumb question but held several meanings. “Are you angry? Are you sad?” He questioned. “Does it feel like there’s this tightness in your chest, like whatever you do, even breathing makes it hurt? Do you think dying will cancel out this feeling?” The man tilted his head slightly, curiously it seemed. “I thought so too.”

Bucky met his eyes; sympathetic ones meeting pained ones. 

“I tried to explain how I was feeling to my mom when I was having my first panic attack. I was fifteen. Brought on when I couldn’t breathe while I was sick, I was so terrified that I’d suffocate on my own congested lungs that I worked myself into a panic attack. The room was spinning, but I ran to my mother’s room, and she comforted me every second through.” His voice had gone quiet, almost a whisper, almost a mumble. 

But Bucky could hear every word off his lips. 

There was no way he could ignore him past the silence and occasional car passing.

He was unconsciously prisoner to a stranger’s will to save him. 

“Did something happen to make you start feeling like this?” He asked. 

Bucky turned away, and looked to the city this time. 

He pushed into Bucky’s peripheral vision again, “Was it your job?” He persisted.

The job Bucky had let down, all those people, those returning customers will wonder where he went, and they’d have to relay the message along the wire that he was too chicken shit to continue working there. On a whim he left on a episodic strand. They were probably laughing at him, pitying what kind of loser he was. 

“Was it home?”

There was nothing wrong with his home, his mom was a complete angel. She’d just gotten a 25 cent raise and Bucky had been so proud of her, beyond his own depression. She’d bought a little cake, more for him than her because of her Diabetes - but she enjoyed a small tidbit of it nonetheless. He remembered it so clearly, and she had been so happy he was there to celebrate her winnings. He cried that night to himself because he’d missed out on so much with his mother, who probably sat alone until her only son came home only to go to sleep and wake up late. 

“Was it your partner?”

That subject was a void within itself. Bucky hadn’t had a partner at any time in his life, he hadn’t had his first kiss - not really, childhood friends didn’t count -. He was alone, and it affected his social skills greatly. He was socially awkward, damaged, and unrepairable. He was broken. 

“Could you please talk to me?” He asked, his voice still so low, so begging. “Please?”

If Bucky looked over, he’d crawl over the railing and fall on his hands and knees and mutter how regretful he felt to burden this man. To make him so concerned about him and to even make him hold that pleading and innocent frown on his face. He stared down at the water, and sniffled. 

“My name is Steve.” He stated, but it sounded as if he were offering it out as a question. “I live in Brooklyn, and I have a dog. His name’s Einstein; he can open doors, get his leash when he wants to go out for walks, he picks up clothes from the floor, and he befriended the squirrel that sits on our ledge. He brings the squirrel his dog food every morning, and the squirrel takes it.” He paused, furrowing his brow. “Come to think of it, he brings the squirrel food every night too.”

Bucky closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

“What’s your name?” He asked again. 

Bucky’s knees started easing out but his ankles still quivered. 

“Bud?” He mumbled, and it sounded so close to  _ Buck.  _ “You doing alright?”

“Bucky.”

“Hm?”

Bucky furrowed his brow, “My name.. Is James.” He said lowly, “My fr-,” he paused, “My  _ mom  _ calls me  _ Bucky _ .” 

“Bucky.” Steve said softly, “I like that. Bucky.” He said again with a easier tone, a little light, and smiley. “What do you like to do, Bucky? Do you like to write?”

He went quiet again.

“I’m not really good at putting words on the page, but I think I’m pretty good at speaking. My boss once said I was good at meeting people, but I don’t think she meant that in a good way. I tend to accidentally crash into people, I’m a clutz sometimes. I don’t like to really admit it though, but I have to  _ sometimes.”  _ He scoffed. “Do you like art?”

Bucky shook his head lightly, almost missed if Steve weren’t staring at the side of his face.

“I’m not into the modern art, I kind of hate it. I like the old art, like oil paintings and paintings about vases, or valleys, and windows with rain on them. I like photography too.” He insisted. “I do like music though. I’m a crazy Killers fan.”

Bucky stared.

“You don’t know who they are?” He seemed genuinely surprised, “You don’t know the song  _ Mr. Brightside? Everyone  _ knows the song  _ Mr. Brightside.”  _ He swatted his side, seemingly come closer. “The chorus goes “ _ Jealousy, turning saints into the sea. Swimming through your lullabies, choking on your alibis, but it’s just the price I pay. Destiny is calling me, open up your eager eyes.””  _ He sang, then stopped suddenly, “No? I’ll tell you what, I’ll get you one of their CDs, and you can listen to it. I’ll even  _ give  _ you one of mine.”

Bucky shook his head.

“What? You don’t like that song? Honestly, it’s one of my favorites.” He insisted.

Bucky looked back down to the water, forcing his voice out of his head, but it was still  _ there _ . 

“Tell me what you’re thinking. I can’t hear it.” Steve said.

It took Bucky a moment, but he spoke. “I want you to go away.” He said softly, fearful that Steve would hear.

But he did. “Why? Why do I have to go away? Because  _ you _ want to?”

Bucky sighed, and the quaking in his chest came back. 

“Buck.. you know I can’t leave now.”

“Why not?” He asked suddenly, a little too loud.

“Because,” he said, “I’d forever put this weight on my back with everything else. This, I can never forgive myself if I let you believe you were something less than a beautiful, brave human being.”

“I’m not brave.” He gasped, a sob in disguise, “I’m a coward.”

“No you’re not.”

“I am.”

“A coward is someone who turns their back on their family when they need them the most. A coward is someone who knows what’s wrong with the world and has the power to fix it, but instead gives in to his own greed, and watches the world burn. You, Bucky, are not a coward.”

Bucky’s lips began quivering again, the water works turning their gears. “You don’t know me.”

“But you know me.” He said, “I told you how I was feeling, how my life is going. Now this is the part where you tell me how you’re feeling, how your life is going. So we can feel better about each other.”

Bucky shook his head, and Steve inched a step closer. He was within lunging range now, if he wanted to he could grab Bucky by the arm and yank him back over. He could call the cops, and have him evaluated. 

“Bucky, tell me how you feel.”

“You don’t care.” 

“Yes I do.” He stated, “I care about what happens to you, about your life, about how you’re feeling, about what makes you happy. I want to see you at your best, when you want to conquer the world, and your complete and absolute worse. I want to see you succeed, Buck.”

Bucky shook his head, closing his eyes, and hanging his head down. “It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late.” Steve stated, “You can change anything in your life, if you don’t like it. If you don’t like an outfit, you take it off and try on another one. If you don’t like eating vegetables but want to try, you put them in a recipe that you won’t taste them. If you don’t like feeling unhappy, then you wallow in it just for a bit and then change it. Because anything is better than feeling hopeless.” 

“I can’t change this.”

“Yes, you can.” He said softly. “You can turn around, and come back to this side. You can sit down and collect yourself, and you can go back home. It may seem like that action is so far away, and you’ve put your mind to this one task, but all you have to do is move one muscle at a time.”

Bucky shook his head blinking the bleary tears from his eyes.

“You wanna give up, huh? Because it’s so easy?”

After a second, Bucky nodded.

“Do this one thing for me, this one thing. When you feel like all you have left is to give up, tell yourself to hold on just from one more second. One more minute. Hour, day, month.” He said softly, “Whatever you can manage, you can do it.”

“I can’t.” He let one hand fall to his side, his right hand holding onto the railing.

“Bucky, look at me.” He said carefully, “Bucky.” His voice so sincere and soft. “Look at me.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at him, but he couldn’t fail to meet his expectations either. He couldn’t let someone down again, not when he’s come this far. He looked to Steve, tears gushing down his face, snot coming out of his nose, pink high on his cheeks, and a sob in his throat choking on the way up. 

Steve’s expression was so soft and pleading, his hand gently turned up, a foot from Bucky’s hand on the railing. He didn’t seize him, didn’t lunge to grab him, didn’t startle him. He knew where he stood, on the other side of the railing with no true power to this stranger’s will. He put all doubt to the wind and kept his hand out. 

Bucky glanced down at the hand, and back to his eyes. His pure, humble blue eyes. “Come on,” he said gesturing his head back, “We’ll go get some coffee or something, let’s talk about this.”

He shook his head, “Go home.”

“You know I can’t leave.” Steve whispered.

Bucky looked to the water, sticking his foot a little closer to the ledge and could feel Steve growing closer. But he didn’t dare touch him. “Oh, god.” He muttered, looking up at the stars.

“Bucky. Bucky.” He chimed, “Come on, come with me, we’ll go around town. We’ll get to know each other a little more, I’ll even bring Einstein.”

“I can’t. I can’t.” Bucky whispered under his breath, shaking his head furiously. 

“Buck.” Steve said a little firmer, a little louder. “Take my hand, come on. I promise with everything in my life that I will do everything I can to make sure you live every single day.”

Bucky closed his eyes, feet feeling for the edge of the bridge.

“I know how it feels to be alone every single day and even when you’re around so many people, you feel empty inside. Like you’re already dead. I know that every single dark day hurts so much, and no matter how hard you try to avoid it - you always get the short end of the stick. It sucks, it really does suck. I know. You can’t have only good days, because without the bad ones you wouldn’t know they were good in the first place. Without them you wouldn’t know how to cure someone’s sadness, or how to make some laugh when they’re crying, or how to take care of someone while they’re sick. The bad days shape us so we take on every day coming at us with a strong mindset. You’ll see.”

He stuck his hand out again, and it looked so inviting, and open. 

“We’ll go out and get that coffee, huh? I know this good shop in Times Square, and if you don’t want to go there - I know someone who makes really good coffee on my street. He has insomnia so he stays up late to watch the sun rise, and says the coffee helps him. He’d love to hear all about you.” Steve looked down at his own hand, “Just,  _ please _ , take my hand.  _ Please _ .”

Bucky stared down at the water, and closed his eyes wiping at them furiously. “I can’t.” He went to put his foot down. “I can’t.”

His foot slipped off the side of the bridge, and the railing chips pin-pricked his palm as his body took for the water down below. 

Steve seized forward, reaching for anything he could grab in the short distance. His hand wrapped around Bucky’s wrist, and the other hand on his forearm of the same arm. The other half of Bucky’s body flailed in a panic, and Steve stared down at him while the railing dug into his stomach. Instead of pain, now fear flooded Bucky’s eyes. He kept his grip firm on Bucky’s arm.

“I won’t let you go.” He stated, grunting as he slowly hoisted Bucky up so he could take hold of the railing. Once he’d gotten grip of it, and the other hand still in Steve’s hold, Steve pulled him forward. Locking his arms around Bucky’s waist, he hoisted him quickly over the railing and back into his arms. “I’ve got you.” He assured, “It’s okay.”

Out of breath and feeling faint, Bucky felt limp in Steve’s arms. Steve carefully moved them to the bench, and sat beside Bucky until he’d been himself again - crying and hysterical -. Wiping his eyes heavily, and trying to wipe the snot from his face with the collar of his shirt, Steve offered assistance to the napkins he had in his pocket. Oddly enough while Bucky was trying to wipe his nose, Steve was dabbing at his pink cheeks. Their knees constantly touched as Steve was helping Bucky physically with as much as he was allowed. 

Bucky continued crying until he was gasping, and simultaneously hiccupping. “I’m.. sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for anything. It's not your fault.” Steve rubbed his back soothingly, “I don’t mind one bit, Buck. You are not a burden to me, I am more than happy to be here for you.” He assured. After a long while of sitting by the water, on the bench, listening to the cars going by. It came to a surprise to Steve. 

His arm sat on the back of the bench, Bucky’s back gently pressed against it. From over Lower Manhattan, the horizon began to glow. It wasn’t just pink or red or orange yet, but a light blue began to settle in. Steve looked to his phone, a picture of his dog Einstein on the lock screen. He seemed appalled.

“Jesus, it’s nearly 5 AM.” He scoffed.

Bucky glanced to him; was this regret? Anger? 

Steve looked to him and smiled lightly, “Can you believe that? One more sunrise to see.”

Bucky felt his chest tighten up, but this time it wasn’t with anxiety or stress. It was anticipation. It had been a once in a blue moon feeling, but this one human being - this stranger - brought it out in him. He was  _ eager  _ to see sunrise, he was  _ excited  _ to see the animals waking up and birds start singing, he  _ anticipated  _ a next sunrise, and a next, and a  _ next _ . He stared out to the sky, the baby blue rolling over ever so gently. 

Steve nudged Bucky’s back, and seemingly cupped his shoulder blade. Bucky wasn’t alarmed by this. “How about that coffee?” He questioned. “I’m pretty sure Hank's still up and kicking.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you want to spend the rest of your morning with me?” Bucky asked.

Steve paused on it, seeming to contemplate, then smiled. “Because I could use a friend to talk to. Like I said, I’ve been having a rough night. Something tells me coffee is a way to fix it.” He stood up and extended his hand out, “Come on.” He said in a playful tone, a pitch higher than his usual voice. “We’ve got some walking and talking to do.” 

When he’d gotten Bucky up, he shoved him under his arm and smiled down at him. Pulling him along, and keeping his arm around his shoulder, he began telling him truly about his life. How his birthday was actually the fourth of July, and that fact was  _ not  _ a joke at all.  Bucky didn’t entirely open up but he enjoyed being in the company of someone who didn’t care whether a whole crowd of people were listening or just one person, he just cared that someone was around so he wouldn’t feel so alone. 

Bucky didn’t know how he got there, maybe it was the way he grew up, or the consequences of boarding a public school, but he was working on himself one second at a time. One minute, one hour, one day. All that mattered was that this stranger, this  _ guy _ , was right there behind him every day and step of the way making sure he was okay. In the end, Bucky’s life did serve a greater purpose. He may not have seen it then, but with pain and bad memory - he could see the good ones and make something of it.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off the song by Amber Run called "5AM", go listen to it, it is a beautiful son and I could listen to it over and over without hating it.


End file.
